


daylight in your heart breaks

by nezstorm



Series: building with our worn out tools [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter, Alternate Universe, Feral Peter, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hale fire aftermath, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Stiles, M/M, Orphan Stiles, kid stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 18:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14361141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/pseuds/nezstorm
Summary: It was easy enough to keep track of days for a week. Then another. By the third one, Stiles took to collecting stones from the river bank, building small towers with them, but never tall enough to topple over.He commandeered a corner of the cave for his stone calendar, but Peter didn’t seem to mind. In fact, some days he’d bring Stiles rocks himself. They were always much prettier than the ones Stiles found: they came in an array of colors and shapes, like little gems. Stiles treasured each and every one of them, sure that Peter spent a while looking for them for him, but he never added them to the regular day count ones.He saved them for special occasions.





	daylight in your heart breaks

It was easy enough to keep track of days for a week. Then another. By the third one, Stiles took to collecting stones from the river bank, building small towers with them, but never tall enough to topple over.

 

He commandeered a corner of the cave for his stone calendar, but Peter didn’t seem to mind. In fact, some days he’d bring Stiles rocks himself. They were always much prettier than the ones Stiles found: they came in an array of colors and shapes, like little gems. Stiles treasured each and every one of them, sure that Peter spent a while looking for them for him, but he never added them to the regular day count ones. 

 

He saved them for special occasions.

 

\--

 

Halfway into his second week of living in the woods with Peter, Stiles woke up with a growling tummy.

 

He groaned and curled up into a ball, suddenly missing even the awful oatmeal Uncle Raf made them eat sometimes. Anything seemed more appetizing now that the only available food were the things Peter brought from the woods. 

 

Stiles braved the barriers and loved the occasional fruit, but no matter how many of them Peter caught for him, no matter how sad Peter looked when Stiles wouldn’t even pick them up, Stiles refuses to eat raw bunnies and fish. 

 

Though by the way his stomach cramped, soon he might not have much of a choice.

 

Stiles was so painfully hungry. He was used to much more food after all, a snack always at hand, meals at set times, a kitchen cupboard always there to pillage through. Peter did his utmost best to accommodate him, especially when he noticed Stiles’ aversion to raw meat. And while he still hunted for himself and brought a little bit for Stiles as well, he also went out of his way to find other edible things.

 

The man still didn’t talk much, a gruff  _ Stiles _ or  _ pup _ here and there when he wanted to catch Stiles’ attention or shut him up when Stiles was too loud chattering. Their conversations were never one sided though, because while Stiles had an abundance of words Peter had an array of expressions and little sounds, as well as a whole other language spoken via his eyebrows. 

 

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Peter went a long time without talking before he took Stiles in. It was mind-boggling, to be honest, a strange werewolf living in the wild, saving Stiles from another werewolf and then adopting him like one would a stray. Even if Peter was the one closer to the animal side.

 

He tried so hard, too. He gave Stiles shelter and a space in his den, he brought Stiles food and protected him not only from the cold, he held Stiles through nightmares. He listened when Stiles had something to say and always replied in one way or another.

 

He was doing so much already, and still Stiles was being ungrateful: not eating the food that Peter hunted down for him. Stiles did try it, though, going for the fish after Peter cleaned it with his claws. He had sushi once before and it wasn’t that bad, this couldn’t be much worse, right? 

 

He didn’t even get to swallow it properly before he puked it out. Peter cautiously avoided giving him fish ever since.

 

He kept sniffing Stiles though, pressing his cheek and hands over Stiles’ forehead checking for fever, keeping a close eye on Stiles for most of the day. And Stiles promised him he wasn’t sick, said that birds and bunnies aren’t something he liked to eat, but Peter seemed aware that things were not right still.

 

Stiles thought, stupidly, that he’d get used to the change in diet. He probably would, given more time, but  that day his belly was rumbling loud enough to wake Peter up.

 

He got a questioning, worried little sound from the werewolf and even more snuffling than usual, and then Peter was off. Probably looking for food, Stiles thought guiltily as he curled up in their pile.

 

He laid there waiting for Peter to return when the rabbit Peter brought him for dinner the day before caught his eye. It was another failed attempt, but Peter still tried every few meals, and it only made Stiles feel worse. The bunny died and would go to waste because Stiles couldn’t muster the courage to eat it. 

 

With an angry little growl Stiles scrambled out of the nest and marched over to the rock-shelf the skinned rabbit laid on. He caught it in both hands and lifted it up to his mouth the way he’d seen Peter do, mouth wide open to take a bite—

 

And then he inhaled sharply and almost dropped the dead rabbit as the scent hit him. His stomach churned again and this time it definitely wasn’t in hunger.

 

If only he could cook it somehow. He wouldn’t even need any spices or bread or even a fork.

 

The thought crossed his mind a few times, obviously, but he didn’t dare mention it to Peter. Not after that one time, the second or third night with the werewolf. It was particularly cold, the moon covered by dark clouds that looked heavy with rain. 

 

Stiles had remained as close to Peter as possible, burrowing into the man and leeching all the heat that he could. The werewolf hadn’t seemed to mind, not at all, he actually looked pleased and amused by the way Stiles latched onto him, to a point that he took to trying to pry Stiles from his side with a teasing smile so that Stiles would chase after his heat.

 

“If you mind the cuddling so much,” Stiles had sulked, after the fifth or so time that Peter attempted to separate them, “maybe we could build a fire instead.”

 

It was an offhand comment, he hadn’t even thought much of it at the time, too busy nuzzling into Peter’s chest. There was no way he’d miss how Peter had gone rigid at the mention of fire, not with how closely pressed together they were.

 

It was why Stiles never said anything since and tried to cope with berries and apples and roots. 

He was just so hungry right in that moment, though, and Peter had only just gone out. That surely gave him enough time to get something up, especially since Peter took to getting back a bit longer every time as he looked for things Stiles might eat.

Mind made, he dropped the dead bunny back on the rock and scurried off to gather everything he might need. It was fairly easy to gather tinder and some dry wood, to clear a space a bit to the side from the den and ward it with some rocks. His dad taught him a few ways how to build a fire, but it was easy enough to take stock of what he could find at short notice and a hand drill seemed by far the easiest right now.

It took a bit time and patience, but Stiles was good at it. Dad was way better and could get a fire going in the blink of an eye, but he always told Stiles that he would get just as skilled, that he was already proud—

Stiles shook his head and sniffed, rubbed at his nose with the end of his sleeve before he focused on the little ember of fire that he managed to produce.

He didn’t know how long it took in the end, he couldn’t judge time all that well, and while it wasn’t the fastest fire he got going, it couldn’t have been more than an hour. He should still have enough time to cook the bunny at least a little.

Finding a sharp stick proved to be a lot easier than getting the rabbit _ on _ the stick, but he managed, only gagging a little bit while doing it. From there it was just a matter of holding the meat above the fire.

It was only when he heard the howling, a piercing, terrified sound, that he realized he didn’t have any way of putting the fire out before Peter got back.

He shot up from his crouch near the fire and looked around frantically as Peter howled again. Stiles was already cursing under his breath. He was so stupid, he berated himself. The river was too far, and he didn’t have a container for water anyway. There wasn’t enough sand to cover it and no fast and  _ safe _ way for him to break the fire apart to make it go out faster.

Peter was scared of fires for whatever reason, and here Stiles was setting one up and close to burning his foot as he tried to kick the logs apart. All for the sake of some stupid meat, he thought angrily, tears already forming in his eyes as he threw the stick with the rabbit to the side.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” he muttered, torn between fear and anger.

The werewolf would be so mad at him. He went out of his way to care for Stiles and this was how Stiles paid him back. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if Peter decided to chase him away.

He could hear Peter already, feet thundering over the ground, the sound of branches breaking. The piercing howl already so close.

He didn’t even see him burst through the trees at the edge of the clearing.

One moment Stiles was still trying to put out the fire, the next he was lifted up in the air and being dragged away from the pit at a fast pace. He clung to the werewolf, but even that didn’t last before he was pried away and set down on the ground, big hands fleeting all over him as Peter checked him over.

And Stiles was already sniffling, but seeing Peter like that: eyes wide and burning red, teeth sharp and extra hair all over his face, so obviously worried that Stiles might get hurt and Stiles did that—

He broke into tears and threw himself at the man, arms locking around Peter's neck as he clung to him and sobbed into his neck.

Peter didn’t wrap him up in a hug, but neither did he push him away. It seemed that he was still too busy making sure that Stiles was whole. His hands were everywhere, going head to toe and back again, unstoppable. Like no matter how much he touched, he still wasn’t sure that Stiles was safe and unharmed.

 

He kept sniffing Stiles, nose pressed firmly against what of Stiles’ skin he could reach, all the while growling in the back of his throat. It wasn’t an angry sound, but it was threatening, like he was ready to lash out at anything that would approach them. As if danger was still looming over them.

The moment Stiles tried to pull away, just a bit to get a look of Peter’s face, the werewolf wrapped his arms around Stiles trapping him against Peter.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, tears still trailing down his face, but he calmed somewhat, alarmed by Peter’s behavior. “I’m sorry I made a fire. I knew you didn’t like them, but you weren’t there and I was so hungry, but the meat was raw and I can’t eat that. And I thought I’d make it in time before you got back. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Peter,” he said, pressing his face into Peter’s shoulder as tears came streaming down again.

“Please don’t chase me away,” he begged, sobbing openly, arms tightening around Peter.

 

Immediately, the growling ceased and changed to little rumbling sounds as Peter  _ nuzzled _ at Stiles. As if Stiles’ distress made  _ Peter _ distressed, and oh, maybe that was the case. Maybe Peter couldn’t calm down because Stiles himself was far from calm.

It was a struggle, calming his breathing, stopping the hitch in his breath, but Peter was scared, too, and Stiles had to fix that. With conscious effort he managed to slow his heart down to a nigh normal rhythm, or it seemed that way at least because Peter’s hold on him loosened a fraction.

Granted more range of movement, Stiles wiggled in Peter’s hold not to break them apart, but just enough to be able to cradle Peter’s  head in his arms. He wasn’t big enough to prop his chin on top of Peter’s head, but he could press his cheek to Peter’s temple. Could lay a kiss on Peter’s forehead, too.

He combed his fingers through Peter’s hair, slowly working out the tangles and murmuring apologies. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, certainly long enough for his legs to start to hurt, but he could feel Peter’s features easing back into human, so he didn’t mind it at all.

It was also long enough for his stomach to rumble loudly, reminding them both that he had still to eat breakfast.

He hoped that the fire died on its own, or at least got small enough that he could drag Peter back and save his discarded, half-cooked rabbit.

“Can we go back?” he asked timidly, once Peter calmed enough to look at him properly.

The man’s brows furrowed, then he shook his head and made a move to pick Stiles up. But the boy would have none of that. He slipped away from Peter and took a few steps back.

Only now did he see they were at the creek, the water a soft hum.

“I wanna go back,” he said, his tone firmer, and he hardly resisted stomping his foot.

He could see the way Peter’s jaw was clenched, the way his blue eyes flickered from Stiles to the direction of their den and back. Stiles took a tentative step back, away from Peter and closer to what he now called home, then stopped at the aborted, worried sound Peter made.

“No.”

Peter’s voice was gruff, but unyielding.

Stiles thought he could still sway him, tell Peter how hungry he was, how he needed his backpack and the important items kept inside. Peter cared for him, maybe enough to brave going back, but he might also never forgive Stiles for using his feelings like that just yet.

“Can we go back tomorrow?” he asked instead, “The fire will be all gone and I’ll clean it all up so there’s no trace of it left.”

Peter’s expression didn’t change, so he tried again.

“Please, Peter,” he begged, “Tomorrow, can we go home?”

And maybe that, too, wasn’t fair, but Stiles was seven. He was seven and hungry and jeopardized the one good thing he had. It was ridiculous, the notion of calling a cave he spent just two weeks in a home, but it was Peter’s and it was safe, and Stiles didn’t want to have to run again.

The important part was that it seemed to work.

Peter’s features softened and he rose from his crouch, moving closer to Stiles with his arms outstretched, clearly wanting to pick Stiles up again.  Stiles didn’t resist this time and readily slid his arms around Peter’s neck.

“Food, sleep,” Peter told him in a soft growl, as he steered them away from the den, “Then tomorrow.”

Stiles thanked him, and hugged him close.

The next morning they both made good on their promise: Peter by taking them back, and Stiles by digging up enough sand to cover the fire pit.

And Stiles mourned the loss of meat that day, but with gentle cajoling and a rumbling tummy they found a solution. Stiles was allowed to make fires, but not that close to the den, at least not until Peter got used to it. It took some time, cold weather and a shivering Stiles until he did relent.

Stiles was more than happy to mark the day it happened with a cherry-red stone.

\--

The pretty, colored stones weren’t always for big changes or developments--didn’t have to mark major things.

Sometimes Stiles put down a green one because he learned something new. Sometimes it just felt right to remember a day by a two-colored rock.

The fishing days, for example, were always memorized by rocks in various hues of blue, that Peter always managed to find for him. It was part of the reason they were Stiles’ favorite moments.

They were spread out, happened every week or two, and always meant splashing around in water with Peter.

It wasn’t even about the fish, tasty as they now were, that Peter would later clean before giving half of them for Stiles to cook.

It was first Peter showing off, fish caught in both hands and teeth, smirking even with a mouth full. It was Peter trying to teach Stiles how to do the same, with low levels of success.

It was Stiles asking Peter to sharpen him a long stick, and then basking in the praise and the proud looks, as he emerged from the creek with his first catch.

It was easy days that were more about getting Peter wet and getting chased for his trouble, Peter playing along with a smirk.

It was them making a game of catching the most fish. When Stiles would inevitably end up pouting when he lost again, but then sulking even more when he saw Peter going easy on him and letting him win. When Stiles would play dirty, tackle Peter and steal his fish, and Peter would laugh and wholeheartedly approve.

\--

Stiles’ first winter began with a clear, white, round rock, but it wasn’t because of snow. They didn’t often get that in California after all.

He called it “Animal attack at Walmart” and laughed at Peter’s eyeroll.

Most of the time, Stiles managed in the clothes he had, but he was a growing boy and material often got torn, and it meant Peter stealing a thing or two from hikers or a choice clotheslines or two. But with winter coming, and Stiles not running as warm as Peter did, that alone wouldn’t do.

It was surprisingly easy to sneak in and out with a werewolf on your side. Stiles felt a bit guilty about it, always did when Peter brought him stolen things, thought his parents wouldn’t really approve. But he couldn’t manage without those things and they only ever took what they needed, so Stiles buried the guilt deep in the back of his mind.

Instead he focused on the heavy jackets Peter piled on him, the worrywart that he was, like he couldn’t tell exactly how much Stiles would need for the upcoming cold.

Stiles wrapped him in a scarf and laughed, “Stop being silly,” then took over the search.

He had Peter trail after him as he picked: a jacket, a few sweaters and pants, socks and underwear, better shoes. He picked for Peter, too, though he had to listen for cues since Peter was very picky for a werewolf living in the woods.

It was fun and a bit exciting, especially as they ran with a cart full of clothes, Stiles following behind in a bunny hat with floppy ears.

\--

There were some days, quite frequent at first, that Peter had to mark for him. They were the ugly rock days where Stiles couldn’t make himself leave the nest, no matter how much Peter cuddled him and cajoled.

Those were the ones when he was swallowed by grief, engulfed in a pitch black hole that made him numb. That took his hunger, his tears, every weak smile.

Peter would leave, after trying to coax him to drink some water and eat a few berries, give him a bit of space to think and wallow. But it was never too long and he never returned empty-handed.

Stiles was never sure what was it exactly that broke him out of his cloud of misery: the things Peter would bring him, or that he would go to great measures to actually do so? Maybe just the fact that he would and  _ was there _ .

Peter tried rocks the first few times, in amazing shapes and various colors. He’d try flowers and deer, too, armful of apples or a few fish. And sometimes they managed to break through the haze enough for Stiles to allow Peter mend him the rest of the way.

Other times they just made Stiles feel guilty over the fact that Peter did his best yet Stiles was still failing him, behaving like he didn’t appreciate Peter’s efforts.

But one of the similarities between them was that they were both stubborn, they were both loyal to a fault.

So Peter never stopped trying, but only ever changed his approach.

Which was how he started snatching sweets from hikers, as many as he could, joined with an occasional book or manual. It wasn’t exactly about what the book was about, but that it was there and Stiles could snuggle up to Peter, using him as a chair or pillow, and read it to him out loud, distract himself from the ache in his chest.

Each time it was easier to come back, even if those kind of days became further in between. And they might never stop coming, he thought on the mornings he woke up alone, with Peter running himself ragged in the wood. But he had a place to always return to, hands that would always mend him whole.

\--

There was a black rock in the stack, too. A mark of terror at the time, though Stiles would later laugh at the absurdity of the thing.

It was the day Stiles was found picking berries on his own and promptly seized and taken by people who thought they were there to help.

Stiles called it a kidnapping, they called it saving, and there was no way to make them understand that he wasn’t feral, that he wasn’t some wood Mowgli and they weren’t doing him any favors by taking him back to civilization. Maybe the howls and the growling, animal sounds he made as they dragged him to their tents didn’t do much to help his case, but all he really wanted was for Peter to find him soon and take him home.

And Peter never failed.

He came just as Stiles was telling the hikers that he was perfectly fine living here, had all he could ever want. He even took a bath in the lake this week, splashing about with Peter and making the man throw him into the deep. The clothes he had on weren’t the cleanest, but that was because Peter was supposed to be teaching him hunting that day, and Stiles always ended up dirty and ripping a seam or two.

The rescue wasn’t a flurry of flashing eyes and sharp teeth though, at least none that the hikers could immediately see. It was growls and heavy thuds near the camp, a tree toppling over right into one of the tents, the bark marked by claws. It was the sound of something huge and dangerous circling the premises, just out of sight. And while that had the people that took Stiles standing back to back in the middle of the camp, Stiles pressed somewhere between them, the air-splitting roar had them all scampering off in panic, making it easy for Stiles to slip away from grasping hands.

It took a few minutes, Peter probably seeing the hikers off, before the werewolf trotted to where Stiles was waiting for him, scooping him up and bundling him into a tight hug.

 

\--

The day Stiles kissed Peter for the very first time happened years after Peter saved him and took him in. It was a small, brief peck that made them both smile at the ease of it. And they marked it with the rock Peter just brought him: a misshapen, pale-pink heart.

 

END


End file.
